


Yearning

by ceruleanshark



Series: Dark Lords of Arda [9]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Generally weird writing style, M/M, hey I'm sick and I'm writing to cope don't judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 10:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15217091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleanshark/pseuds/ceruleanshark
Summary: Imprisoned in Mandos, Melkor attempts to find solace in his dreams.





	Yearning

In the Halls of Mandos, time seemed to stand still.

 

The days flowed by far too slowly, every second dragging on and on into an infinity. Melkor was oft forgotten, left to sit alone in his cell, bound hand and foot by the unforgiving metal of Againor. Namo did visit him from time to time, but these occasions grew few and far between as the years went by. 

 

In more recent days, he had offered Melkor an audience with Manwë if he would simply accept his brother's rulership, and every time Melkor had rejected it furiously. He did not wish to speak with his brother, after all, it was by his order that Melkor had been sealed away.

 

 It was cold in the Halls, and dreary. Melkor had gone through every way he knew to amuse himself countless times. Even his waking thoughts seemed to grind to a near-halt, tumultuous fantasies of escape (and, possibly, revenge on his jailers) slowed from a constant stream to a mere trickle of consciousness.

 

 Melkor slept often, a not-entirely-futile attempt to escape from the heavy weight of existence. His dreams were both a refuge from his bleak reality and a torture all their own.

 

 He knew that Namo’s brother, Irmo, could read his dreams and flit unseen through the darkest recesses of his mind. The pale Vala was probably amused by what thoughts Melkor's sleeping mind played host to. His face creased involuntarily into a sneer as he imagined Irmo’s delicate laughter, one lily-white hand covering his mouth politely. 

 

 Irmo, in all his quiet dignity and delicate radiance, infuriated Melkor. While he knew he could have leverage over his fellow Vala if he so desired (Melkor, after all, knew the exact nature of Irmo's relationship with his precious brother), that choice would have to wait until he was free of Aman and the Halls once and for all.

 

 That did not, however, change that Irmo bore witness to Melkor's innermost dreams: a concept which once surely would have horrified the dark Vala.

 

 But it ceased to matter. Nothing seemed to anymore. The outside world felt unreal, like a fever dream. Past and future faded and blurred together. There was only the endless  _ now _ , and Melkor would take what little indulgence he could get.

 

 Melkor closed his eyes and let himself drift into the tempestuous embrace of unconsciousness.

 

 He dreamt of the warmth of the hearths Angband, all glowing embers and ashy stone. His mind’s eye swam with faint recollections of the elegantly-dressed Umaiar, bright lights, and rich food of the banquet halls of Angband, but part of him knew that in reality he was alone and abandoned in a cold cell, forgotten by the world at large.

 

He dreamt of faces and voices half-remembered, swimming in and out of focus in the thick haze of his thoughts.  _ Gothmog. Langon. Thuringwethil. Lungorthin.  _ It had been far too long since last he'd heard them speak, or kept their company.

 

 But one stood out. One was far more agonizing to recall in any measure, and yet his mind went to him anyway.

 

 Mairon.

 

 Melkor missed the presence of his fëa, warm like the flames he adored. He missed his familiar scent, his unearthly beauty, the warmth of his body against Melkor's, his sweet laugh and his calm voice. He fit with Melkor perfectly in every aspect: mind, fëa, and hröa. 

 

 His absence stung more sharply than any whip ever could. Melkor ached to be near him again, yearned for the simple touch of Mairon's hand or the brush of that perfect fëa against his own.

 

 He had played out their reunion in his mind many times over. Would Mairon embrace him tight while their fëar interlocked, as he was wont to do? Would he run to Melkor and throw himself into his arms in a rare display of blatant emotion? Would he swear to never allow Melkor to be taken from him again? Would he show up at the Halls and attempt to launch a rescue?

 

 He would not consider the possibility that Mairon had forsaken him. It was too painful.

 

 Memories of his past with Mairon were a bittersweet comfort, a distraction from the uncertainty of their future. Living it over and over made the pain in his heart both better and worse, driving him half-mad from loneliness and isolation. He could no longer separate what exactly it was he ached for with every fibre of his being, he simply  _ yearned _ .

 

  It overtook him, weighing him down and drowning him in the confusion of his own emotion, and for a brief (perhaps merciful) period he ceased to think.

  
  
  


 When Melkor finally left the dreamless void of his sleep and blinked to reluctant wakefulness in his cell, he felt a sudden determination welling up inside him. Something seemed to spark, and his eyes glimmered with new life. He would be free of the Halls and back on his throne if it was the last thing he did. The fire Maia who ruled in his stead would return to his side, as he always had, and their fëa bond would blaze with life once more.

 

 If that required his glibness and charisma rather than his strength and rage, then so be it.

 

 He opened his mouth and spoke, heedless of the blood trickling from his lower lip as it split. His voice cracked with disuse in the dry air.

 

 “Namo.” He rumbled, voice piercing the silence. Though no reply was immediately forthcoming, Melkor knew the lord of the dead could hear him clearly. For the first time in what he would later learn had been three ages, he swallowed his pride.

 

 “I would seek audience with my brother, the one and true King upon Arda.”

**Author's Note:**

> Discarded titles: "how Melkor finally swallowed his pride and talked to his brother like an adult", "Irmo is a dream voyeur and Melkor is remarkably docile about it", and "dammit Melkor, this didn't have to last for three ages"


End file.
